Wolf Watch
by blueinkedbones
Summary: Toddler Derek looks up at the witch—who has stopped looking startled and started looking all glinty-eyed and dangerous again—and bursts into tears. Stiles kneels down, grabs the kid up in his arms, and hightails it the fuck out of that situation.
1. Chapter 1

The most amazing thing about Derek getting turned into a toddler is that even the witch looks surprised, staring at the ground where the powerful Alpha she'd been fighting had stood moments ago like she's not sure what happened. Which is just awesome, because it's not like Stiles was kinda hoping she'd know how to undo it, or anything.

The thing is, Stiles is not big on babies, in general. They're cute from afar, sure, and very, uh, small, but up close they're usually sticky, and leaking some if not all kinds of bodily fluid, and they do a lot of crying and not much else, so Stiles, Stiles is not ready to be Teen Dad just yet.

Then toddler Derek looks up at the witch—who has stopped looking startled and started looking all glinty-eyed and dangerous again—and bursts into tears.

Stiles kneels down, grabs the kid up in his arms and hightails it the fuck out of that situation.

* * *

So now Stiles is on the run with a werewolf toddler—cub—no, toddler, toddler is something Stiles can maybe handle, cub is panic attack material—from an angry, twisted witch whose evil plan is apparently the same one as Royal Pain's from _Sky High_. Which is just fantastic. Toddler Derek is definitely not as heavy as his full-grown counterpart, so you'd think carrying him would be easy considering Stiles has kept Big Derek afloat for two hours back when he had significantly less muscle, but the thing to keep in mind is that Stiles wasn't running for his life, then. He was keeping up a nice, lazy tread, the kind where you pace yourself and anything that keeps your head above the water is a job well done. This, though, is a suicide workout, only instead of a sadistic lacrosse coach chasing you with a whistle, it's a witch with the power to turn you into a five year old without even meaning to.

Derek is surprisingly quiet, barely snuffling against Stiles' shirt, tiny arms wrapped around his neck, needle-like claws clinging to his collar. Stiles is almost definitely not going to hold this over Derek's head, because being turned back into a child has to crack the top ten of the guy's most traumatic experiences, but just for himself, and probably Scott, he makes a note of the little peanut ears and rabbit teeth and the sippy cup in Derek's—

No, wait. That definitely wasn't there before Derek got zapped.

Panic ratchets up in Stiles' chest. Holy god, this maybe isn't even Derek. Stiles maybe just _stole a child_. Maybe the witch is chasing them because it's her kid! Holy god, holy—

The kid starts growling. A really adorable little baby growl, but a growl. He's definitely a werewolf, then. Odds are he's not a witch's kid.

"Heeeeey, little buddy," Stiles says shakily, darting a look behind them—yup, still being tailed by angry witch with murder eyes—and trying to run even faster despite the steadily growing stitch in his side. "Hey, what's your name?"

"Derek," says Derek.

Okay, that's good, that's good. "And, uh, out of curiosity, what's your last name?"

Derek looks up at him warily, seems to assess the situation, and, sippy cup clasped firmly in one hand, a fistful of Stiles' shirt in the other, he says, "Stilinski."

"Uh huh," Stiles says, relieved. Then the words catch up with his brain. He goes still.

"Wait, what?"

* * *

"He really thinks you're his dad," Scott says. He's clearly torn between hating Derek under any other circumstance, and wanting to hold the kid, because he's Scott, comforter of the small and/or defenseless and general all around sweetheart. Lucky for him, Derek refuses to leave Stiles' arms, and Stiles is powerless against the guilt-trip of small strong arms clinging to his neck and a panicky heartbeat rattling against his own, not to mention the warm weight of Derek's head on his shoulder. It's a freakin' weird day, nothing makes sense, and however freaked out Stiles is about it, this kid—because he is a kid, now, whoever he was, wherever he came from—is bound to be at least twice as freaked out by everything. Which—that's off the charts freaked out. Stiles isn't exacerbating that, oh no. He can almost forget the kid is Derek, or thinks he's Stiles' kid, if not for how the pack keeps circling them like they're a circus attraction, asking a thousand questions neither of them knows the answers to.

Derek is doing an excellent job of being his typical social butterfly self, which is to say, burying his face in Stiles' shirt and ignoring the crowd completely. Stiles can't really blame him, like, at all. Scott has good intentions but is also totally, and very reasonably, perplexed. Jackson is just lurking, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, and Lydia is this close to studying Derek under a microscope.

Derek really doesn't like Lydia. All Stiles' reassurances of how amazing she is change absolutely nothing. Nada. Zip. Zero.

Luckily, Lydia doesn't seem offended. "It's Derek. He probably sees me as competition."

Stiles quirks an eyebrow. "You're having alpha instincts about Lydia?" he coos. Derek lifts his head from Stiles' shoulder and frowns at her.

His eyes flash gold.

"Wait a second," Scott says. "Gold eyes. This Derek's not an alpha."

"Dad's alpha," Derek says.

"No I'm not," Stiles says. Scott gapes at him. "I mean, I'm—"

"Where's your dad?" Jackson interrupts.

"_Here_," Derek says impatiently. "Id'yit."

"Did—Did he just call me an idiot?" Jackson clarifies.

"Sure sounds that way," Stiles says. So what if Derek thinks Stiles is his dad? It's kind of nice, actually. Being valued. Being trusted. And what's the alternative, huh? Showing this kid his burned-out house, telling him what really happened to his family? Stiles'll get this spell undone soon. There's no point breaking his heart all over again in the meantime.

He'd tell Jackson that if there was a moment when Derek wasn't clinging to Stiles' neck like he was afraid he'd be wrenched away. Since that's not an option, he gives him a pointed look and hopes that's enough to silence him.

Oh, innocent days.

"But—"

"Lydia," Stiles says sharply, cradling the back of Derek's head so he has an excuse to "slip" and cover his ears in case of emergency, "Why don't you take Jackson somewhere nice and tell him why paternity concerns don't have to be debated with a three year old."

"Three and a half," Derek corrects.

Stiles nods, filing this away. "Three and a half, Jackson. You really wanna have that conversation?"

"Jeez, Stilinski, don't go psycho on me," Jackson says defensively. "We're all thinking it. But you want to play Mommy, fine. I guess Derek'll just stay this way. It's not like the whole pack is in danger because our alpha is three and a half and randomly put _you_ in charge."

"I'm not in charge," Stiles scrambles. "Scott's in charge. Lydia. Anyone but you, really."

"But you're Papa," Jackson coos. "And Papa's Alpha."

"Papa," Derek echoes miserably, and looks up at Stiles like he alone holds the answer to all of life's puzzles. Stiles snuggles him closer in silent apology. What can he say? He's a sucker for a good puppy-eye.

"See?" Jackson says, throwing his hands up.

"Where's Papa?" Derek says, looking over Stiles' shoulder like his dad's hiding somewhere in the room. He's back to clinging to Stiles's neck, panic jolting through him.

Stiles' approach right now is staying calm and riding it out. If Derek has to figure everything out as a three year old—a three and a half year old—then he'll need someone he can trust, still. Who else does he have?

"Derek," Stiles says carefully. "When—when you're older—"

"Stiles, don't," Scott says, looking stricken. "He's _three_."

"And a half," Jackson reminds him.

"Three and a half, whatever, just _lie_."

Derek isn't having any of this. "Daddy," he pleads. Stiles has never been so sorry in his life. "Da_ddy_," Derek repeats, tugging at Stiles' shirt for emphasis. "Where's Papa, Daddy?"

Stiles widens his eyes in a plea for help as he swivels to look at all of them: Scott, radiating sympathy, Jackson, smirking angrily, and Lydia, frowning like Derek is a riddle she can solve.

"Wait," she says. Derek glowers at her. "Stiles, you're Daddy."

"Is that right," Jackson says, a whole new angle to his smile now.

Lydia flips her hair and ignores him. "But you're not Papa."

"No shit," Jackson says.

"They're not synonyms," Lydia explains. "Not in this case. Derek had two dads, Stiles. And he thinks you're one of them."

* * *

"So I'm not the Alpha," Stiles clarifies. "Or, I mean, Papa was. Not Daddy. Oh my god, this is weird."

Separating Derek and his "daddy" is not an option. Luckily, he's been so worn out by the excitement of the day that he's sleeping now, curled up against Stiles' side on Adult Derek's couch. He's tiny, adorable, harmless. He should be safe from anyone but the real psychos.

For some reason, that thought really isn't comforting.

* * *

All hell breaks loose when Derek wakes up from his nap to find Stiles gone.

He doesn't freak out loudly; it takes some time for Allison, who was put on babysitting duty so Stiles could go out for provisions, to find Derek scraping tiny claws against the windowsill like he's planning his escape.

"Some things really never change," she says to himself, reaching out to scoop Derek up. Derek flinches away like he's been scalded.

"Hunter," he bleats, tiny prong fangs growing from his gums. "Hunter hunter hunter hunter hunter _Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad_!"

Allison's cell rings.

"Tell me I didn't just hear Derek calling me from half a mile away," Stiles says sharply. "Tell me I'm going crazy, please, reassure me."

"You might be going crazy," Allison says. Stiles exhales hard.

"Oh my god. I thought—I really—"

"But he is screaming for his dad. He knows I'm a hunter, he doesn't trust me."

"For his—How—Allison, what the hell is going on?"

Derek has slowly crept closer and closer to Stiles' voice on the phone. He scampers when Allison turns to look at his wide-eyed stare, hides by the window.

By the purple-powder lined window.

Derek sneezes.

"Oh god," Allison says, and dives; she lands curled around the toddler, shielding him from the powder cloud settling on her shoulders.

"Why on earth would Derek line his windowsill with _poison_?" she snaps when the kid is safely tucked into a nest of clean, powder-free blankets. "With werewolf-killing poison?"

"You're just posing a hypothetical, right?" Stiles demands, slightly frantically. "Not asking because—Fuck, Allison, tell me he's okay and not—and not—"

"He's fine, I dealt with it," Allison sighs. "Come get your kid, Stilinski, he's got miserable separation anxiety."

"He's not _my_—"

"Dad," Derek sobs, at Allison's legs again, chin tilted to the ceiling like Stiles might fall from it. "Dad, _Daaaaad_..."

"Oh my god, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Stiles stammers. "God—Um—Look, I'm on my way, just, uh, I don't know, give him the phone?"

"You want me to give my iPhone to a werewolf toddler?" Allison clarifies.

"I don't know! I just—Put me on speaker? Put me on speaker, see—See if that helps."

"Daaaad," Derek whines when she does, batting at her arm with claw-less hands.

"It's okay," Stiles says. "Shh, it's okay, I'm on my way. But hey, you can trust Allison, okay? She's Da—She's my friend, she'll look after you."

Derek stares up at Allison balefully, assessing this.

"Okay?" Stiles asks. "And stay away from purple powder, Je—geez."

"Okay," Derek whispers, mollified.

"Hey," Stiles says hoarsely, "Hey, hang in there, okay? We'll figure this out, we'll—" He clears his throat. "You'll be okay, it'll all—"

"Stiles, breathe," Allison says sharply. "Breathe in, count to four, breathe out, count to four, 1, 2, 3..."

"No, I'm fine," Stiles cuts her off. "I'm—I've got a cold or something."

"Stiles," Allison warns.

"_Fine_," Stiles says. "Really, I'm—Like five minutes away, don't even—"

"You're_ driving_?"

"Hands-free, I swear," Stiles lies.

Allison hangs up.

* * *

"I was fine," Stiles says, unloading a box from the car as Derek wraps his arms around his leg. "_Fine_," he repeats, scooping Derek up to his shoulders with his free arm. "Sorry, sorry sorry," he tells the kid, who is clinging tighter than ever, heartbeat sharp and loud in Stiles' ears. Is that okay, that he can hear Derek's heartbeat? It shouldn't be that loud, should it?

Allison just looks at him.

"What?" he says defensively.

* * *

Stiles has never been this panicked in his life. Derek is missing—more than missing, he vanished from the freakin'_ living room couch_—but that's not all.

There's a man where he was, looking furious and then confused, standing up and staring straight at Stiles, barely blinking.

"Stiles?" he says, like he knows him. Like Stiles has ever seen this person before in his life, like he didn't just show up in Stiles' living room in place of Stiles' toddler, who was happily watching his dad's old show moments ago, before the whole world stopped making sense. "What the hell is going on?"

"You tell me," Stiles snaps. "Where's Derek?" His kid loves that stupid show, loves watching Stiles and Scott as kids, goofing around, getting up to crazy shenanigans, fixing it all with pack and friendship and freakin' fairy dust. Derek's watched every DVD so many times Stiles pretty much eats, drinks, and sleeps Wolf Watch. Or Woof Watch, as Derek calls it, because he's determined to be the most ridiculously adorable thing Stiles has ever made with his own body ever. Or even ever _seen_.

The man looks at Stiles like he's crazy. "Did you hit your head?" His eyes scan the room, snap back to Stiles. "Where the hell are we?"

"You're in my house, buddy," Stiles says sharply. "You showed up on my couch, where my kid should be. So why don't you tell me where the hell you think you are."

"You're not gonna believe me if I tell you," the stranger says.

"Oh yeah?" Stiles challenges. There's something about the man, something Stiles can't put his finger on, and it's making him crazy. "Try me."

"I'm Derek Hale," the man says. "I think I'm in an alternate universe."


	2. Chapter 2

"You're Derek Hale," Stiles repeats, standing up to look at him. "No, no you're not."

He's huge. Bodybuilder huge, pure muscle huge. His muscles probably have an extra layer of muscle. And they're all tensed, all set in fighting position.

"I'm not," he asks flatly. His voice is cool, sarcastic. He looks at Stiles like he's some kind of idiot.

He's nothing like Derek.

"No, you're not," Stiles decides. "You're—some WWE wannabe, you're—" But that settles it, makes it undeniable.

"You're not from here," Stiles realizes.

"What gave me away?" Derek asks.

"Well, first off, you have—" Stiles vaguely indicates the sheer mass of the guy. "Muscles, you're like _made of muscle_. And you're obviously a werewolf, so that's—risky."

"Risky," Derek repeats. "Why would that be risky?"

"Because people look for what they wanna see here," Stiles says. This guy has clearly never set foot outside. Not Stiles' version of it, anyway. "They're already terrified of some monster, I don't know, stealing their kids off the street and eating them. Their, like, original factory setting is paranoia. And you? No offense, but you look like you've been—"

"Eating people?" Derek asks.

"To them?" Stiles nods. "Probably!"

"Everybody knows about werewolves here," Derek says. It's a question. Despite the complete lack of punctuation, his eyes—and god, those _are_ Derek's eyes—are clearly question-y.

"Yeah," Stiles says. "It didn't go over too well."

* * *

"You have a child," Derek says, eyes flickering from the show still playing on the TV to the scattered toys. Bear's sippy cup is missing. Stiles hopes he has it, wherever he is. Hopes he's okay, wherever he is, and not—and not—

"He's three," Stiles says. "Three and a half," he corrects himself. He can almost hear Bear saying it. "He looks exactly like my Derek, and he's the smartest kid I know." His eyes darken. "'Course, here, that means knowing what to do around hunters, knowing what to do if someone tries to hurt him—"

"And what's that?"

"Call for me," Stiles says.

"You," Derek says. "Not your Derek?"

"Things are different here for werewolves," Stiles says. "Everyone knows what you can do, it's all scare tactics and fear campaigns. People are too prepared. My kid defending himself, or, or my Derek defending him—People see what they expect to see. He's already going through too much. He wouldn't survive the ring. And I won't let that happen."

"The—"

"It's sick," Stiles says. He grabs the remote, hits 1. He doesn't look; just the sound is bad enough. He switches it off once Derek's eyes go wide between his gathered brows. "That's what passes for werewolf justice. A fucking cage with everyone who ever stepped a toe out of line more than twice getting thrown in and pulled apart. Streaming live, always. For your _entertainment_, of course." He drops the remote, stares at Derek. "You think I'm gonna let that happen to my family? There's a problem, they call me. I _always _hear them. And I always come."

"So he's defenseless," Derek says, unimpressed. "In my world? That's how you die. Waiting for someone else to rescue you."

"Shut up," Stiles snaps. "I'll find him. I always find him." But he's shaking. He doesn't know what Bear's up against, or how to get to him. What if he's screaming right now? Crying for Stiles, for Daddy, and no one is coming? "What did you leave behind, huh? How'd you get here?"

"There was this witch," Derek says.

"Magic," Stiles says. "Well, yeah, that makes sense."

"Does it?" Derek asks.

"People don't like being scared out of their minds all the time," Stiles says. "They take every kind of security they can get."

"Against werewolves," Derek says.

"No, against unicorns," Stiles says. "Yes, against werewolves. My Derek's been through—he's still—Oh god."

Derek's coming home tomorrow. He's finally fucking coming home from that hell and he'll need his family, he'll need all the support he can get. Bear was the only thing that got him through the last warning. Family's always been his anchor.

If he, if he comes home and Bear is gone, if all he has is Stiles and this Derek, who doesn't even know how their world works, who'll probably be a freakin' danger _magnet_—

"What is it?" Derek asks. His voice is softer, closer to the Derek Stiles knows, but still miles away.

"I have to find him," Stiles says. "I have to find my kid _now_. How the hell do we get back to your world?"

"Don't you think if I knew that—" Derek starts, but cuts off at the look on Stiles' face. "Stiles is back there," he says, quieter. "My world's Stiles."

"With that witch," Stiles says. "With my _kid_—" Panic floods him all at once. "No, no no no no no. Your Stiles, can he—" Stiles fights to breathe even. "I mean, you're Captain Muscles, what's he like?"

"He's eighteen," Derek says.

"He's a teen? Oh, wonderful," Stiles says bitterly. "That's just fantastic. My kid's trapped in a world he doesn't know with a witch who can_ do that_, but at least he's got Acne McFreshMeat to die in front of him—"

"Shut up," Derek snaps. "That's not gonna happen."

"And I've got Monster Movie Cliche in my house with my husband's _face_ when he's about to come home, do you know what—"

"Your husband," Derek says.

"What about it?" Stiles looks at him. "Don't tell me _you're_ going to be one of those jackasses who think we still don't deserve that, or, or the ones who think werewolves and humans shouldn't even _date_—"

"But you have a child," Derek says.

"So?"

"Who's the mother?"

Stiles' eyes narrow. "If you put my family in danger, I will throw you out. Derek doesn't need that shit on top of everything else—"

"Your son is Derek," Derek says. "But your husband's alive?"

He manages _husband _with only the slightest hint of awkwardness.

"Some piece of shit cop baited him," Stiles says. Just saying it brings the fury back. "Derek was just defending me, defending our kid, it was_ nothing_, but he—" He scratches at his eye. "You get two warnings," he says. "Then the ring. That was his first warning. I couldn't see him for a month, I didn't know—"

"It's—" Derek tries. "Jail?"

"It's _hell_," Stiles says. "I, I didn't know—People come back different, or they don't—" He swipes at his eyes, drags his palm down his face. "He was in there when I had our Bear, I didn't—"

"When," Derek says, but can't seem to continue. "When _you_—?"

"Great, you're one of _those_," Stiles says, turning his back on Derek and heading into the kitchen. The pills are a bitch to swallow dry; he gets his coffee mug, washes it out, fills it with water. "'Men, not mommies, protect the dying breed of'—whatever the fuck. The shitbag cop was one of those too. He punched me in the stomach. Fucking eight months in, he could have _killed_—"

"I'm not," Derek says, following him. "One of those, I don't—It's your family. And I would never—" His eyes flash alpha red. "I'd _kill_ him. How did your Derek stop?"

"_Stop_?" Stiles could almost laugh. This Derek really doesn't have a clue. "He never started. He got in the way. Wouldn't let the fucker hit me again. Supposedly he seemed _'threatening.' _That's all it fucking takes." He can still see it, four years later. That cop's smug fucking grin. Slamming Derek so hard against the floor he cracks his head open, leaves a bloody trail. Tasering him still. Knee pressing hard into the small of Derek's back to slap the wolfsbane cuffs on, Derek choking, gasping, Stiles begging him to stop, he just twists Derek's arms behind his back, fixes the cuffs too tight, the wolfsbane collar—Derek howling in pain, tears sliding down Stiles' face—dragging him up again.

There's no such thing as excessive force with werewolves. Cops have to protect themselves, and wolves can heal. That's the excuse. That's all they need.

There's not a fucking moment Stiles doesn't wish he could tear that monster apart. Forget super-strength, he'd—he'd tear his fucking throat out. With his teeth.

Stiles' teeth are little blunt things. It'd take _hours_. And he wouldn't stop for anything.

It's a revenge fantasy, the only kind of revenge Stiles is gonna get, but it helps.

"So what," Derek says, like he can smell Stiles' rage, like he can taste it. "Some cop can just attack you and you can't do anything about it?"

"Me?" Stiles huffs out a bitter laugh. "I can stand up for myself, that's just my right as a human being. But a werewolf? Forget it."

Derek looks stunned, like he can't even believe it. Stiles would give anything for a world where his Derek was just as surprised.

"You think the wolves in the ring look rabid?" Stiles asks. "Most of them didn't start out that way. People finding out about werewolves is the worst thing that's ever happened to them, even if it did save Derek's family."

"Even—My family's _alive_ here?"

Of course. His isn't.

Derek suddenly looks younger, softer, even under the muscles, the sharp line of stupidly perfect stubble.

"Yeah," Stiles says, and pulls out a chair next to his. "Yeah, those hunters got caught on the surveillance. My dad's case, actually."

"Thank you," Derek says, looking at Stiles like—like—

It doesn't matter. He's not Stiles' Derek. Stiles' Derek is in solitary, two months of solitary for no good reason, his second _warning_, for attending a freakin' non-violent protest. He's been gone two months and Bear still doesn't understand where Papa is. Stiles doesn't know how to explain it to him. Derek hadn't done anything wrong, he was just standing there. Stiles had Bear in his arms, a little sign, Derek was just standing. Standing while being a werewolf, apparently the worst offense there is.

Solitary isn't just human solitary, it's hell—no sound, nothing but cold blank whiteness, four identical walls sealed up seamless. No food, no anything. Supposedly for detox purposes, but that doesn't even make _sense_—werewolves can't get drunk or high, everyone knows that. Electric currents humming through the floor, keeping you from lying down and just sleeping your time away. The first time Derek came back, he barely spoke at all, but the nightmares went on for years. He still has them, sometimes—had them, before they took him away again. And now he's back there.

How could Stiles tell his kid that? He couldn't.

Derek's sister moved in to help out while Derek was away. She loves Bear, but she calls him Derek. Treats him like the little man he is, talks to him like an adult. Two days before—before _this_, Laura told Bear about where Derek was, or tried to. Bear started to cry. Stiles made her leave, hugged Bear close, swore it wasn't true.

He's fucking _three_. He doesn't need to know how dark the world is yet. Not yet.

* * *

"Peter's in the ring," Stiles says. He's made coffee, poured it into his mug and the spare with the cracked lip, pushed that toward this Derek. His Derek's mug stays upended on the rack, one more fucking reminder.

Derek swallows hard, nods. "For Laura?"

"For both of you," Stiles says, swirling sugar in his cup. He used to drink it black, but his Derek got him hooked on this way, gross amounts of sweetener and cream until it's practically a milkshake. "Laura's not very popular for it, but—"

"Laura's _alive_?"

The hope in his eyes is crushing.

"Yeah," Stiles says. "So he—he isn't different? Yours, I mean."

"I don't know," Derek says. Which—that's fair. "What's yours like?"

"He hurt you," Stiles says. He's still angry, decades later, but it's a tired anger. "Hurt my Derek, when he was a kid. He was just a bully with super-strength and no one who wanted to point a finger until Laura—" He takes a slug of coffee, burns his tongue. "But I thought it was the system, y'know, that it _broke_ him."

"Peter didn't hurt me," Derek says. "Unless—But that was normal, that's just pack, we can heal. But he killed Laura."

He says it so simply, so matter-of-factly, like Stiles didn't just see Laura two days ago, didn't kick her out of his house for making his kid cry.

And—_We can heal_. Maybe that was an evolutionary advantage once, but now—

Laura'd first tried to get help when Derek was ten. She was sixteen and the only one not carefully looking the other way. Stiles gets it, why no were ever wanted to see it, why they let it happen. Werewolves never report on other werewolves. It'll just confirm what everyone already wants to think. They painted Derek like a criminal for nothing, for defending his family from a violent bigot, for attending a protest with his family. Real crime, the kind of crime humans sneak under the radar all the fucking time, they make that look like—like werewolves are out of control monsters, like they should all be put down for the safety of the _civilized humanity_. So fucking civilized, human-werewolf attacks aren't even tracked. Werewolves heal, so who gives a shit?

Laura was sixteen and Derek was ten, and they waited for hours in that station, waited for hours to get kicked out for wasting police time, because Derek wasn't hurt anywhere, anymore.

This is the world Bear is growing up in. Stiles doesn't know what he was thinking, having kids. He doesn't know how he can protect him from any of it. He tries, he tries, Bear hasn't been hurt yet, but he's three years old. Anything could happen to him between here and wherever.

Sometimes Stiles just wants to grab his family and run, but there's nowhere to go. This is the whole were world.

But holding his Derek, curling around him, Derek holding onto him like he's the only safe place, the only sure thing—Watching his kid, his adorable, brilliant werewolf kid maneuver the world, already learning to be quiet, keep his head down, hide his little claws, his fangs, so no one can look at Bear like he's dangerous, can hurt him and call it self-defense and have no one question it or hold them accountable because_ werewolves can heal_—

It makes Stiles want to tear the fucking system apart.

* * *

Derek wakes up screaming. Stiles rushes to him, but he can already hear his little heartbeat thumping loud as a drumbeat in his ears.

"It's okay," he says quickly, pulling Derek into his arms. "You're okay, you're okay. I've got you."

He still doesn't get it, can't figure it out. How can he hear Derek's heartbeat? How the hell could he hear him calling for his dad from his Jeep, halfway across town?

But that doesn't matter now, not when Derek clings tight to him, shaking. His little face is sticky with snot and tears but Stiles can't actually make himself care about the mess. He hugs him close, says as gently as he can, "What's wrong, Derek?"

Derek just cries harder.

Shit, if he's still the Derek Stiles knows somewhere in there, it's a pretty stupid question. Honestly it's a shock the full-grown Derek doesn't wake up screaming, considering his _life_.

"_Papa_," Derek says, and Stiles' heart actually literally hurts.

"He's okay," Stiles lies. "He's okay, you're okay."

"Papa's locked _up_," Derek says. "Laura said, Laura said—"

"She's wrong," Stiles says. What did kid Laura know, anyway? He's maybe not even lying anymore.

"'Cause he's a werewoof." Derek hiccups miserably against Stiles' shirt. "And people're scared."

"No, no, that's not true," Stiles says. What, did hunters kill Derek's dad, too? Was there one_ second_ in his life that wasn't impossibly traumatic? "That's not true, Derek, he's—"

"Not_ Derek_," Derek says, aggravated. "Papa's Derek."

Something heavy and horrible thuds into place over Stiles' chest.

"Papa's Derek," he says slowly. "And Daddy's Stiles?"

Derek nods, eyelids already drooping with exhaustion.

"And Laura," Stiles says. "She's Papa's sister."

"Aant," Derek says sleepily.

"And you're named after Papa, aren't you."

Derek nods again, his head bobbing softly against Stiles' suddenly too-tight chest.

"What does—" This is surreal, this is impossible, but it's also the only answer that makes any _sense_. "What does Papa call you?"

"_Bear_," Derek says, and closes his eyes.

* * *

"Scott?" Stiles whispers into his phone, trying not to wake little Bear, who is finally breathing even against him. "Scott, you're not gonna believe this, but I know what happened."

All his theories, all this time—he couldn't have been more wrong.

This isn't de-aged Derek, oh no.

This is some alternate Derek Hale's _kid_.

And he's some alternate Stiles' kid, too.


	3. Chapter 3

"He's not Derek," Stiles says. Bear's gone from hiding behind his legs to exploring the house, darting back to the living room every few minutes to make sure Stiles is still there. "He's my kid. Like my _actual_—" He stops. Scott's looking at him like he just came down in a UFO and asked to be taken to his leader. "Not _me_ me," he clarifies. "Alternate universe me."

"He had two dads," Lydia says.

"_Has_," Stiles says firmly. The alternative is too horrible to actually consider.

Lydia's still looking at him like he's missing the point.

"And, uh... surprise?" Stiles ventures, weirdly nervous.

"_Dude_," Scott says, and attack-hugs him. Relief seeps in immediately, makes Stiles close to lightheaded, till Scott says, "What's wrong, Bear?"

"Not your bear," Bear says defiantly, eyes narrowed. So that name's just for his parents, and alternate universe parental doppelgangers, then. Good to know.

Stiles feels kind of stupidly honored. Which—yeah, that doesn't make a lot of sense.

Still, he scoops up his kid—other Stiles' kid—and bites down on what he knows is a goofy crooked grin.

"Derek," Scott tries again.

Bear watches him balefully from Stiles' arms. He doesn't say anything.

"So alternate you named his kid Derek," Jackson says. He's sprawled on the couch like an Armani spread. But with all his clothes on, thankfully. "He_ looks_ like Derek."

"Are you sensing a pattern?" Lydia asks him, unimpressed.

"Stilinski got in Derek's pants," Jackson surmises.

Stiles goes pink. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, can we—" Bear doesn't seem incredibly traumatized by this conversation or anything, but _Stiles_ might be, and this is the best excuse he's gonna get. "There's a kid here," he reminds the room at large. "And can I remind you, this is alternate Stiles. _Al-ter-nate_. Different dude."

"So you wouldn't," Jackson says. "If you could."

Stiles makes an indignant noise at him. "Excuse me, I could _definitely_—"

Jackson smirks.

"You know what?" Stiles says, face heating. "Shut up. Just—stop talking. In fact, never talk again. Ever." That doesn't feel emphatic enough, but Jackson just makes some stupid smug face and goes back to posing, so. Stiles'll take it.

"The _point_ is," he says, because everyone is focusing on like the least important detail in this whole thing, "Derek? Our Derek? He's not this guy." He looks down at Bear. Bear looks contentedly back up at him. Stiles grins, then remembers his actual point. "He got _swapped_."

"Well that's just great," Jackson says, folding his hands behind his head artistically. "Any alternate universe in particular? Or are we just gonna go alphabetically."

"Ha ha ha, you're hilarious," Stiles says, making a face at him. "I don't actually know_ everything_—"

"I'm shocked," Jackson says flatly. "You, clueless? What a plot twist."

"What do you know?" Scott asks. He's genuinely interested. Scott is the best.

"Well, I'm pretty sure people know about werewolves," Stiles says, looking down at Bear nervously, but Bear just hugs Stiles' neck and clambers down his side to check out the research bookshelf. "I don't think there's anything you'd like there, Bear." Shit, should Stiles be buying Bear toys and stuff? Hands-on play is critical for a kid's development at this age. Stiles is pretty sure he read that once.

"Woof watch," Bear says, fingering the spines of the volumes on the lowest shelf.

"What?" Stiles says blankly.

"_Woof watch_," Bear says meaningfully. It clearly means a lot to _him_, anyway. "Scott an' Stiles," he expounds, when Stiles continues to fail at understanding him. "Bein' pack, havin' _adventures_—" He frowns at Stiles, warbles halfheartedly, "Comin' back?"

"Scott and Stiles," Stiles repeats. Well, here goes nothing. "Bear, am I on a _show_?"

"_Was_," Bear says, frustrated. "_Woof Watch_."

Well, that's—Huh. Other Stiles is an _actor_. And his kid likes his show! That's—that's actually adorable. That's actually the most adorable thing Stiles has ever heard.

So that's what Bear's doing over there, Stiles realizes. He's looking for a DVD.

Oh, god, it's just one more disappointment for the little guy. Stiles is really hitting this 'not sucking at child care' thing out of the park.

"I don't have any Wolf Watch DVDs, Bear," Stiles says regretfully. "But you know what I do have?"

"What," Bear says, his lower lip puckering.

"The real life Scott McCall," Stiles says, grinning his widest grin, hoping this actually works. "_Right here_."

Bear goes wide-eyed.

"_Here_?"

"Yeah," Stiles says, smiling for real now. Bear looks like a kid in a candy store. He looks like a kid who's just had the _concept_ of a candy store explainedto him using _an actual candy store_. "He's Da—He's my best friend in real life, too."

"An' _pack_?" Bear presses, thrilled out of his mind.

"Of course," Stiles says, kind of drunk on finally getting something right, here.

Scott catches on quickly. "What's your favorite part of the show, Bear?"

"_Der_—" Bear starts pointedly, but his mouth goes so wide he can't actually form words. "_Scott_," he says, delighted, and scampers over to hug Scott's legs.

There's an impossible look on Scott's face as Bear clings to him. For a few seconds Stiles actually wishes he was a werewolf. Just for a little while, to know—Does Bear, y'know, _smell_ like him? Like he's Stiles'? Werewolves can smell that kind of stuff, right?

Reality kicks in hard. Bear can't be Stiles', not _physically_, not looking this much like Derek, and even a family tie—Other Stiles is a whole other person. Stiles just looks enough like him to fool a homesick toddler, that's all.

"Stiles," Scott says, staring down at Bear, face unreadable. "Stiles? Um."

"What," Stiles says, a little harsher than he means to, trying not to let stuff that should've been obvious bum him out and kind of failing at it.

"Dude," Scott says, sheer disbelief taking over his face. "He's _yours_."

* * *

"What, like_ mine_ mine?" Stiles says, stupidly hopeful, even though that'd obviously be impossible. He laughs. "He looks like Derek, there's no—"

"Yours yours," Scott confirms. "Like _you had a baby_ yours."

"Like with a—" Stiles stops. There's a kid here. "Dude, I don't have that. Also, _what_?"

"It's an alternate universe," Lydia says, like that makes a difference.

_Does _it make a difference?

"So the other Stiles has—both?" Stiles tries. Wow, that's weird to think about.

"Or magic," Lydia says. "There was a witch, wasn't there?"

"'Or magic,'" Stiles repeats. "You know, that was not the response I was expecting from you, Lydia."

Lydia shrugs. "There's no reason an alternate universe has to work like ours. You could be a seahorse."

"A seahorse," Stiles repeats, nodding agreeably. He stops, stares at her. "What?"

"The males have the kids," Lydia says, like that's not the desperate cover story of some scientist dude not willing to admit he screwed up at identifying seahorse genders.

"So he's mine," Stiles says, pushing the head-spinning non-science aside for a minute. "Like, biologically."

"Alternate you," Jackson says.

"Shut up, Jackson," Stiles says. This literally could not be less of his business.

"Daddy," Bear says, pressing up against Stiles' legs again.

"What is it?" Stiles says, but he's having trouble getting the words out.

"Don' be sad," Bear says worriedly.

"What?" Stiles swipes at his eyes, shakes his head quickly. "I'm not. I'm not, I'm—I don't know what I am right now, but not—not that." He scoops Bear up again, feels the full warm weight of him settle in his arms, little hands gripping at the back of his t-shirt, splaying out softly against his back.

This is all gonna turn out to be some really vivid dream in a minute. Stiles is just gonna wake up and never tell anyone he had a dream about having a kid with Derek Hale, and the world will just make sense again.

He maybe holds Bear just a little bit tighter for a second.

* * *

"So," Stiles says when his brain comes back online, "We're looking for an alternate universe where they, uh, where they know about werewolves, and where some version of me had a baby."

Bear is back to hovering close, but he peers at Scott over Stiles' shoulder, heart still thrumming excitedly.

Which—Right, that's not normal.

"And where I have, uh, werewolf symptoms?" Stiles ventures. "Like I can hear Bear's heartbeat, right, that's not—Lydia, can you—"

"You can hear his heartbeat," Lydia repeats, fascinated. "No, I definitely can't." She looks at the two of them, shrugs. "But I'm not his dad."

"I'm," Stiles says, an instinctive one-beat laugh forcing itself up and out. "I mean—" He shakes his head. "And, uh, I heard him calling for m—for his dad from my Jeep."

"So?" Jackson says.

"I was halfway across town," Stiles says slowly.

_That_ shuts him up.

But not for long.

"So where do we start looking?" Jackson asks. "Craigslist? Google?"

"Missed connections," Stiles says. "'I was the guy next to the alpha you were glaring at. You were the witch who replaced—'"

"That's it," Lydia says, eyes suddenly sharp.

"What's it?" Stiles asks blankly.

"There's only one way you can hope to find Derek in a multiverse you don't know the first thing about," Lydia says. "You have to find the witch."

* * *

"The witch," Stiles repeats. "The one looking at Derek like she—" Bear squirms in his arms. Stiles reroutes carefully. "—didn't wanna be friends," he says, instead.

"Well, you're gonna have to _make_ friends," Lydia says.

"Yeah, I'll get right on that," Stiles says.

Bear's stomach growls.

Oh, god, Stiles is worse than the worst fake dad ever. Even the worst dad must remember food without being cued by their kid's _stomachs_.

"You hungry, Bear?" Of course he nods. Of course he is. Stiles is the _worst_. He stands up, transports Bear to the kitchen. The house isn't exactly well stocked or anything, but Stiles is pretty sure they have one of those mac n cheese mix things somewhere. Kids like those, right? "You want mac n cheese?"

Bear beams at him. The clot of anxiety in Stiles' chest gets worse. What, does Bear think food is a _perk_ here?

"Okay," Stiles says, trying to stay calm. "Okay, I can make some mac n cheese."

The light on Bear's face dims just a little bit.

"Not Papa?" he says mournfully.

Aaand Stiles has accidentally stepped in a landmine, because mac n cheese apparently has some special alternate Derek/Bear significance, and Stiles just reminded him.

"No, I'm gonna make it this time, Bear," Stiles says, struggling not to apologize with his everything and alarm Bear worse.

But it's too late.

"I wan' _Papa_," Bear says, and buries his head in Stiles' shoulder.

"I know," Stiles says. "I know. And I'm gonna find him, okay?"

Bear lifts his head, eyes wide and wet and horrified. "Papa's _lost_?"

"What? No! No no no no," Stiles says hurriedly. "We're just gonna—"

"_We're_ lost?" Bear asks, lip trembling.

Why, why couldn't he have gotten sent to a universe with a more competent parent? Because Stiles is pretty sure he's scarring this kid for life, here.

"No," he says carefully. "No, nobody's lost." He reaches for the mac n cheese blindly, nearly clears a shelf with the back of his hand. "It's an adventure," Stiles says desperately, slapping his arm across everything in an effort to bat it all back into place. He hikes Bear up his side with a little bounce, looks at him. "Like the show, right? Scott and Stiles, the wolf pack, having adventures—"

"'_Bein'_ pack,'" Bear corrects.

"Exactly," Stiles says. "So that's what we're doing, okay? We're having an adventure. Scott and Stiles and Bear."

"Scott an' Stiles an' Bear," Bear repeats, awed.

"And Lydia and Jackson," Stiles adds, as an afterthought.

"No," Bear decides. Stiles grins at him.

"Yeah, good call," he says.

* * *

The mac n cheese is orange and gluey, exactly like every mac n cheese Stiles has ever eaten. Not so Bear, apparently. He tries a tentative spoonful and frowns at the bowl like it's offended him.

"s not _cheesy_," he says.

Curse alternate Derek and his probably homemade pasta with six cheeses and, like, _breadcrumbs_. Stiles cannot cook. He can make most things with Just Add Water! on the label, he can basically use a microwave, but he doesn't have any—Michelin stars, or whatever. He has fucked up boxed spaghetti a few times, okay, he has burned _popcorn_. He's not gonna impress any critics.

Turns out his kid is a critic. That's just wonderful. Stiles is just _rockin'_ this parenting thing.

"Wan' _Papa_," Bear says, his lip quivering.

"We'll see him soon, okay?" Stiles tries. "After the adventure."

"Don' _wan_' an adventure," Bear says, near tears. "Wanna go _home_."

"Bear," Stiles says, but—what is he supposed to say to that? No, Bear, you can't go home, I don't know where it is? I'm not even your dad. I'm screwing all of this up, and I don't even know if you still have family to go back to, and I don't know what to do, and I'm kind of_ freaking_—

"Laura said," Bear says, and Stiles' heart sinks. "Laura said—"

"Don't worry about that, okay?" Stiles says. "Papa's fine, I'm—I'm not gonna let anything bad happen to him. I promise."

Famous fuckin' last words, but what is Stiles supposed to _do_?

"Laura said—" Bear shakes his head, shudders.

Stiles scoops Bear up again, waits for his lock-tight hug to relax around his neck.

It doesn't.

"People're scared of werewoofs," Bear whispers.

"No," Stiles says. That's not fair, he can't—he can't just keep thinking that, that's _toxic_. Maybe it's true, that doesn't change anything. That just makes it worse. Bear's like the cutest kid Stiles has ever seen, he can't—He doesn't need some complex about what he is, who he is, just because people suck. "No, it's—Some of them just don't get it yet, okay? Like—Like before I told you that Allison was my friend, you thought she was scary. But she's not, y'know?"

"She's'a _hunter_," Bear says stubbornly. "Papa says careful of hunters."

That hits Stiles fantastically, just a really fantastic punch to the gut. Stiles winces, nods.

"He's right," Stiles says. "Being careful's important. But—"

He hooks Bear close with one arm, takes Bear's little hand in his, shows it to him.

"You have claws, right? And you could hurt someone—"

"No," Bear says.

"You don't have claws?"

"Not gonna," Bear says. Tears are sparking in his eyes. His little hands curl into fists, tiny fingernails digging into his own palms. "Not gonna hurt someone, not gonna—"

"No, no, I know," Stiles says, feeling like shit. He's making kids cry now, that's what he's doing. He hopes the other Stiles is better at this stuff. And alive, and okay at the end of this. And Bear's papa too, _Jesus_. "I know you're not. You're—" He goes for broke. "You're my little bear," he says, and feels like the biggest fraud in the world when Bear looks at him so hopefully, like Stiles really is his dad, just taking off some dumb Halloween mask of bad parenting and general ineptitude and revealing himself. "I just mean—if you wanted to. But you don't! You don't, I know that."

The simile isn't working; it's just upsetting Bear more. Stiles just drops it, drops Bear's hand, nuzzles his hair.

Tiny tears drip off Bear's chin.

"I'mma werewoof," he says, so quietly.

"I know, Bear," Stiles says.

He's the worst fake parent in the world. The actual confirmed _worst_.

"'m not scary," Bear says, twisting to look up at Stiles, eyes pleading.

"No," Stiles says, over the strangling lump in his throat, and brackets Bear in safe with his palms. He really does look like a tiny Derek, that wide eyed, desperate stare, the one that just tears you open because it's obvious he's never seen his face_ do that_, that he doesn't realize he's not faking tough anymore, doesn't get why you're not running and screaming. "No, you're not."

"I'm your bear?" Bear asks, uncertain.

The lump in Stiles' throat grows and grows and grows.

"Yeah," Stiles says. "Yeah, of course you are."

It almost doesn't feel like a lie.

* * *

"Yeah, well, just because you can heal doesn't mean—" Stiles starts. Derek stands up so fast his chair scrapes on the tile.

"We're wasting time," Derek snaps. "Talking about—ancient history."

"It's not—"

"Just _leave it_, Stiles," Derek says. He starts pacing around the kitchen, glaring at random furniture like it's personally offended him.

Stiles hasn't done any acting in a while, but he's pretty sure he knows what that means.

"Okay," he says quietly. "Sorry."

Derek stops, looks back at him, eyebrows high.

Stiles holds his gaze.

Derek snorts, fixes his eyes on the line of pictures on the fridge.

His eyes narrow.

"Who the hell is she?"

Stiles looks. Frowns.

"What, you're serious?"

"Who," Derek says frostily, face closing up like origami. "Is. She."

"I thought—" Stiles huffs out a short breath. "What, you really don't—"

"Stop screwing around," Derek says. "Was this all some big plan, huh? Get my—my world's Stiles alone, or get me—"

"Dude, you're not making any sense," Stiles says.

"That witch is the reason I'm _here_," Derek snaps.

"Wait, she's—" Stiles could laugh. He doesn't, because Derek looks a dangerous mixture of pissed off and freaked out, and Stiles doesn't need him _growling_ or something and getting the whole neighborhood on his ass. But it's a close call.

"Derek," he says slowly. "Derek, that's your sister."


End file.
